


girl crush

by arexnna



Category: Fifth Harmony (Band)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, F/F, Hints of Camcy, Mentions of Laucy, Non AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16146443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arexnna/pseuds/arexnna
Summary: "I want her long brown hair, I want her magic touch / Yeah, 'cause maybe then, you'd want me just as much"'current' time camren 'non au'





	girl crush

**Author's Note:**

> i like to balance out tooth-aching fluff with heartbreaking angst
> 
> was obsessed with harry styles' cover of girl crush by little big town, and naturally, had to write a fic inspired by it. 10/10 would recommend you to listen to it if you haven't, and also to listen to it again because it's wonderful

_I got a girl crush, hate to admit it but_

_I got a heart rush, ain't slowing down_

//

They tell you that you need to remain _relevant._

You smile through your exhaustion, nodding professionally as they go on about how you’ve not had a _hit_ since _Havana_ and that was released almost a year ago. _Sangria Wine_ wasn’t what the radios wanted, the remixes didn’t stick, and they tell you that if your next single doesn’t hit the Top 10, you’ll soon be forgotten. You don’t fail to hear the threat in their words.

You don’t bother mentioning how you’re currently opening on stadium tours in between your own shows, how you’re attending every music award there is or how your streaming numbers are still rising. You don’t tell them that you’ve been working every single day for more than a year now, not giving yourself any breaks, not allowing yourself space to breathe. You don’t say that you’re pretty sure you’re going to burnout by the end of the year.

You don’t bother defending yourself, because you’ve been in the industry for long enough to know that whatever they say goes.

You’re simply the product that they’re creating.

When the meeting ends, when the higher ups have filtered out of the room and when it’s just you, your mother and Roger, he tells you not to worry so much, an attempt at a reassuring smile on his lips. All three of you know that it doesn’t work, both your mom and manager recognising the panic that fills your eyes, noticing how you’re picking at your cuticles, and how your own smile that you send his way isn’t convincing anybody at all.

You talk it over with Roger for the next couple of days. He sends you a list of producers that have mentioned wanting to work with you, sends you demos they want you to record. You should feel flattered – you are, kind of – but you can’t, not when none of them stick, when none of these sound like _you_ , when they’re not _yours._

You’ve already been thinking about the next album – the whole concept of it, its themes, the sound you want for it, but still, that’s not enough. They want a _single._

You’ve offered some unreleased songs, the ones that didn’t make the first album, pitching that your fans have been _dying_ for studio versions of them.

“They’ll stream it, I _promise_ you,” you try to assure, “They’ll request it on radios and everything. I’ll do as many promos you want, I’ll add it to the setlist for tours, as long as it sounds like _me—_ ”

“Look, _honey_ ,” you hear interrupt from across the room. The look she wears is as condescending as her _‘honey’._ You press your lips together, forcing on a patient smile, despite wanting to explode from being interrupted for the nth time this hour. “None of these are _singles,”_ she says, and you nod despite the fact you’re beginning to realise that your definition of a ‘single’ differs vastly from their definition of what a ‘ _single’ (read in italics)_ is _._ “They’re those _nice_ songs on an album that people will dub as _deep cuts_ , but there’s nothing _special_ about them.”

You feel the bile at the back of your throat, nodding as you pretend that her critique doesn’t at all affect you. It’s not like you didn’t force yourself back into a place you promised you’d keep buried in the past to get these songs written, to share your heartbreak in your art, only for it to not be _special._

“ _Scar Tissue_ is fun and all—” she continues, and this time you can’t help the scoff that escapes. You’d never imagine for that song to ever be described as _fun,_ but _hey,_ to each their own. Roger shoots you a look and you acknowledge it by straightening your back and painting on as professional a smile as you can manage. (You’re beginning to tire of that word – _professional._ It has just about as much meaning as _single_ does to you at this point.)

You tune out of the rest of the meeting. You get the gist of it – they want something that will have everyone talking, they want the buzz around it, they want you to stay _relevant._

“We’ll get you a collab – those always worked,” Roger offers later when the both of you are in the car. “Maybe Shawn? Everyone loves the two of you together, and relationship rumours can swirl around the two of you while you’re doing promos and—”

You shake your head, “I’m not using Shawn like that again,” you say, cringing slightly as you think of how much the two of you milked the publicity surrounding the possibility of a relationship the last time. If anything, you’re glad it was Shawn of all people, because at the end of the day, you gained one of the best friends you’ve ever had. “Just,” you barter, “Just give me a couple more days. I’ll put something together,” you promise. Roger doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he’s always given you the benefit of the doubt, and this time is no exception. So, he nods, sending you an encouraging smile, and bidding you with an, “I trust you.”

//

It’s two days later and Roger has been texting you about how he’s just about managed to convince the suits to give you some space to come up with something, and even without him saying, you know how much a feat that is.

There are lines in your phone, past feelings put into words typed into your notes, but none of them really stick, none of them are what they want.

And then you find it buried deep in your computer, hidden under layers upon layers of overly categorised files, dated to a year you’ve really tried keep in your past.

When you first see it, titled _girl crush???_ next to the little blue icon, under another folder labelled _2016_ that’s within your _unreleased/drafts_ folder, you’re not expecting much, but when you find two files in it, _girl crush lyrics draft.docx_ and _girl crush.mp3_ , you find yourself taken back to over two years ago, ripped out of the present and tossed into a hotel bathroom in a city you can’t even name, thrown into a flurry of emotions you’d promised yourself to leave behind.

You remember writing it so clearly. So much has happened since then, so much time has passed, yet the memory remains fresh in your head. Memories you’ve tried so, _so_ hard to keep buried. It remains so vivid in the back of your mind that you wonder how you had momentarily forgotten about it.

You blink, and a scene plays behind your eyelids. You’re not sure exactly where you are. At this point, the cities have meshed into one, all hotel rooms looking the same. It was towards the end, you recall with a bitter smile. You’re cooped up in the bathroom – it’s gorgeous, all smooth marble and cool tiles, and you’ve made yourself comfortable in the bath, lining your butt with a folded towel as you pour your feelings out.

It’s among one of the faster songs you’ve developed, lines and words jotted out messily all over the pages of your journey, your thoughts and feelings leaking, and by midnight, you have something that resembles a verse and a chorus that you’re almost proud of. You record yourself singing it through your phone, trying different melodies before you finally find your groove. It’s a couple dozen takes later, recorded over some simple strumming on your ukulele, but you kind of have a song.

A breath of relief falls from your lips and you feel _light_ for a moment, fresh out of tears, your emotions not weighing you down anymore. While the process of writing always opens closing wounds, you find it always helps in the after. It numbs you and for a second, you feel good. For a second, there’s no Lauren, there’s no Lucy, there’s no heartache, no jealousy, there’s nothing but quiet.

You open your eyes and you’re quick to delete the folder. You’ve moved on since then _(you’ve moved on, you repeat, over and over again)_ and you don’t need any more reminders.

Your phone buzzes and it’s from Roger pulling you out of the past, telling you that the driver will be picking you up for M&Gs in fifteen minutes. You’re glad for the distraction, you just know that if you spend another moment thinking about it, you’d do something stupid like offer this as a single.

//

You come home after the show and it’s almost seven hours after you dug it out from the deep crevices of your laptop’s storage that you do exactly that. You press _send_ on the e-mail you have drafted to Roger, the two files attached to it, the body reading _‘this is the best I’ve got rn’,_ all the while telling yourself that this is _good_ , that letting this out is the last step in really getting over her.

Six minutes later, a text from Roger appears on your phone.

 _It’s amazing. I have the perfect producer in mind to help you rework it and fix it up,_ he sends, and half a smile twitches on your lips.

A second message comes through a second later.

_But are you sure you’ll be okay with this being put out if the suits sign off on it?_

You send him a picture of yourself giving him a thumbs-up and a nice, bright smile, saying _‘it’s all good’_. You appreciate the worry, but you’ve already convinced yourself that this won’t hurt, that you’ve gone through that pain already and that it can’t really get as bad as it was when you were living through it. You don’t acknowledge it, but you’re getting better and better at lying to yourself.

//

From the second you present the song title to them, you don’t miss how their lips get pressed into thin lines, the grimaces on their faces. They don’t say anything, not yet, but you can already feel the judgement being passed. Despite it, they nod at you to play them the demo.

Your voice fills up the room, and you can’t help but feel a sense of nerves rise in your chest. Showing people new music always makes you feel like this. The glances they share amongst each other, those unconvinced looks they pass one another doesn’t do anything to quell your anxiety.

The first verse barely ends and one of them – a man _(big shocker),_ balding and looking like he could have a grandchild your age – waves his hand to ask for the music to stop. Roger’s already expecting the terse smile you throw his way, ready with a rueful look.

You’re prepared for it really, you didn’t actually have high hopes for this, but still, it stings.

They say, “This isn’t part of your image.”

They mean, _“This isn’t straight.”_

You want to argue that it is. That your image should be _you_ and this _is_ what you are.

“We already talked about this during the discussion about your album and we appreciate that you heeded our advice with the pronouns in the singles, but what we talked about then very much still applies to any of your other projects.”

You have to actively keep your features neutral, not allowing for the tears to well up as you nod your head. You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you just shuffle your things that sit on the space of the table in front of you, fidgeting with adjusting your phone to stay neatly aligned to the papers next to it.

You’re set on accepting the new track Frank Dukes has offered you, reassured with the fact that you work well with him, that he can get you a _hit._ You know he’ll make sure that there’s still _you_ in it and you figure it wouldn’t be too bad to settle for that.

“She doesn’t specify _who_ she’s singing about.”

You turn your head to find Roger staring the suits dead in their eyes, expressions schooled and the exact picture of _professional._

_“Mr. Gold—”_

“She doesn’t _once_ mention the gender of who she’s singing about, she—”

“She _clearly_ says—” the one with a full head of silver hair interrupts, adjusting his glasses as he reads, _‘I want to taste_ her _lips_ ,’” clear and enunciated, unimpressed. There’s a murmur of humourless laughs let out by the people beside him. You ball your fists, unnerved, but still you manage to keep your emotions in check.

 _“’Because they taste like_ you,’” Roger reads the next line as his retort, cool and calm. “She doesn’t once mention the gender of the _you_.”

You watch as they fluster to come up with a response, mouths opening and closing, looking between each other.

“Might people still question it? _Probably,”_ Roger continues, unbothered in the slightest, and you’re reminded exactly why you’d hired him in the first place. He’s a shark when he needs to be, and he always has your back. “But there’s nothing there if you’re not looking for it. Take it at its root and it’s just a song about heartbreak and envy, just a girl envious of her love’s lover,” he concludes and does so with a shrug on his shoulders.

Their reply only comes after a moment passes. “And promos?”

That’s when you snap back into it. “I’ll be vague,” you promise. Everyone in the room knows you’re not great at straight out lying, and you being vague is for the best. “I’ll just talk about a past relationship, how it hurt me, all of that,” you say as though the thought of talking about all of that in front of cameras, with mics shoved in your face is not at all daunting. “They’ll eat it up,” you tell them, and a sad smile graces your lips.

They don’t look exactly all that convinced. You see it in the way their lips are pressed tightly together in thin lines, murmuring amongst each other low enough that neither you nor Roger can properly catch anything from your end of the table.

“Actually,” Roger speaks up, “since Matthew Hussey’s cheating scandal,” he continues, and you can’t help but cringe visibly at the sound of his name. It was all really for show, but you’re still unable to stop how angry you were when all that came out. “We could leave the media to speculate that it’s about that. There’s no better time really to drop a song about some heartbreak and jealousy.”

You’re not too sure if you’re exactly alright with that, but you tell yourself to look at the bigger picture, that Roger is only doing this to really bring them on board.

“It’s not exactly a _summer song_.”

“Then instead, we’ll promote it as a concluding piece to _Camila,”_ you offer, “The closing chapter to that era,” you say, and this, you desperately want to believe.

You watch as they huddle together, swivelling their chairs to create an exclusive circle as you vaguely hear words exchanged between them.

It takes an excruciating three minutes where you and Roger exchange silent glances before they finally break from their discussion.

Their stares are unsettling to say the least. But when they finally break this odd, silent power play with a decisive, “Alright,” all four of them nodding at you, both you and Roger let out a breath of relief.

//

_I got it real bad, want everything she has_

_That smile and that midnight laugh she's giving you now_

_//_

You weren’t exactly naïve enough to believe that the promo run for the song would be anything less than painful, but you would have liked to think that you wouldn’t be spending the breaks between radio interviews crying in the buildings’ bathrooms.

You’re a week into promos and it hasn’t gotten any easier for you to rehash old wounds.

But the universe just _loves_ to fuck you over, and you’ve come to accept that that even when you see a familiar name - still managing to send a shock through your system - appear on the screen of your phone, you can’t help the empty laugh that falls from your lips.

You read her _‘you in town?’_ and you’re not even surprised at how your tears just continue flowing as you splutter out pained laughter.

It’s been years, but you know exactly where _in town_ is without having to ask.

You’re not really sure what she wants, but now, after all the time that’s passed, you can strongly say there are no grudges being held, no hard feelings between the two of you. You don’t think she could want to stir up trouble, not after all these years, so your reply is simple, throwing the ball back into her court.

**_not yet. thursday i’ll be back_ **

It’s another minute before her reply comes through.

 _i heard your song._ It’s not necessarily a shock – odds are slim that she just so happens to want to rekindle a friendship after you’ve coincidentally released your song – but still your heart drops slightly at the words.

_do you think we could meet when you’re back?_

_i have so much i need to apologise for_

You need to reread the last text a couple times over, really trying to make sure you’re seeing it right. _Apologise?_ Even without all the time that’s passed, you really don’t believe she has anything she should be sorry for. The situation was simply unfortunate.

Still, you think it’s best for it to be discussed in person.

**_i land at noon. you could come over to mine at around 3?_ **

**_i’ll send you my add_ **

After she agrees to the time, after you send her your new address, you don’t have too much time to think about it all, when there’s a knock on the bathroom door, hearing Natalia – your new assistant – inform you that they’re waiting on you for your next interview.

You dry your tears, shake off the quiver in your voice, and put on your best game face. You knew exactly what you signed on for, and you’re going to see yourself through this even if it kills you.

//

_I want to taste her lips, yeah, 'cause they taste like you_

_I want to drown myself in a bottle of her perfume_

//

When you open your door after opening the gates to your home at her text reading _‘i’m here’,_ when you see her walk up to your front door, you’re brought back to exactly where you were all those years ago.

It rushes to your head, every insecurity you’ve ever had each time you looked at her, every _‘you’re not good enough’_ whispered in your ear, every time you felt like nothing compared to her - it all comes back to you.

The time that’s passed has treated her unfairly well. Her brown hair, all silk and smooth, shines under the Miami sun, tan skin impossibly glowing as the air around her simply reeks of confidence as she all but struts towards you.

“Camila,” she smiles, her voice sweet and cute and soft and you remember that you never could actually hate her.  You just wonder why you couldn’t be her.

You have to remind yourself that all of _that_ is in the past. You tell yourself the years between then and now has changed you for the better, that you can look back and be reassured that you’ve grown. But you look at her and suddenly the air around you is suffocating you with thoughts and feelings you’ve tried so hard to keep buried.

She pulls you into a hug, and you barely reciprocate, too caught on the faint scent of something sweet and floral on her skin.

“Lucy,” you finally respond, nodding at her as you draw apart, “Hey.” It’s the best you can manage.

The smile remains on her lips and you can’t stand to look at it, unable to convince yourself that it doesn’t still hurt, so you’re quick to invite her into the house.

Your parents are out, away for a late lunch somewhere deep into the city and far from home - you made sure of it, not wanting to answer to your mother’s questioning looks or your father’s worried glances. Sofi’s still at school and you have a good couple of hours before she should be home but you’re sure whatever this is will be done by then.

Thunder greets her enthusiastically, jumping at her and biting at her shins, licking at her face when she squats down to pat him, and you feel vaguely betrayed, a voice in the back of your mind scoffing, _“Oh wow, you too, huh, Thunder?”_

Despite yourself, you smile, telling her to make herself feel at home while you make some coffee, on the pretence of being a good host when you simply need a moment to recollect yourself.

Once you fit in the pod, letting the machine work its wonders, you allow yourself deep breaths, eyes screwed shut as you try to recentre yourself.

As grateful as you are for the ease and efficiency of these Nespresso machines, you find yourself without any more reason to delay the inevitable.

When you reappear in your living room, Lucy’s sat comfortably on your couch, legs crossed with Thunder snuggled calmly by her side. Neither of them see it, but you shoot daggers at that little traitor’s way.

She doesn’t beat around the bush. The moment after she takes her first sip of her coffee, an appreciative smile on her lips, she tells you, “I heard your new song.”

Both of you already know this, of course, but it works to drag the two of you right into the deep end of this conversation. _You’d_ have attempted to ease yourselves into it, start with small talk maybe, and _then_ lead into it, but again you’re reminded that you’re not her.

“Yeah?” you say, “What do you think of it?”

_Deflect, deflect, deflect._

“It’s amazing,” she tells you earnestly, a smile that’s irritatingly sincere painted on those pretty lips. “Beautifully heartbreaking.”

You don’t know what to reply to that, so you don’t. You force your lips to twitch at their corners, nodding once in acknowledgement before your eyes drop to your fidgeting fingers.

“I’m sorry, Camila.”

The words fall off her tongue, low and rushed, and you have to snap your head up, gauging her features to see if you heard right.

She’d _said_ she wanted to apologise, but you still don’t see her at fault, still taken aback by the unnecessary apology.

You stumble over your next words, eyes narrowing then widening as you try to make sense of it all. “What- what could you- _What for?”_ you settle on, confusion clear in your eyes.

There’s a light scoff falling from her lips that you don’t appreciate. Still, she answers, “Everything- Lauren, how she ended things with you, how insensitive we were with what we had, how you left.”

You furrow your brows. Shaking your head, “It wasn’t your fault,” you tell her. “You didn’t make Lauren end things with me like that, and it’s not your fault she was so in love with you that she wanted to show you off, and you’re definitely not to blame for why I left.”

 _“Camila.”_ It’s soft, but there’s a hint of sharpness to your name on her lips. “You don’t need to baby me about this. I know I fucked you over- you don’t have to pretend—“

“But you didn’t!” you argue, your voice raised. Thunder wakes up, ears alert as he looks at you, worried. You nod at him, for some reason believing he’d understand that you’re telling him that it’s all okay, but he seems to get it as he lays back down on his paw. “It wasn’t your fault and, _fuck_ , it was barely even Lauren’s.”

She looks at you in complete disbelief.

“I wasn’t the right person for her at the time,” you continue. _I wasn’t you,_ you want to say. “She was happy and in love with you, and _yeah,_ it fucking hurt to see her kiss you so openly in front of the girls and whoever, but I’m not going to blame her for being _happy._ I was jealous,” you agree, “but I couldn’t even be petty about it. She looked at you like how I looked at her, and I remember just how good it feels to love someone that _much_ , so I wasn’t going to take that away from her.

“And me leaving? I just- I wasn’t happy. For a multitude of reasons. Your relationship was only one among a list of things - the main thing being with myself.”

Thunder seems to be able to feel how your heart has started beating faster, that you’re on the edge of tears, of almost breaking because he gets up then, trots towards your side and settles next to you, resting against your thigh. You mindlessly stroke between his ears, and you feel yourself being pulled back into you.

“I _heard_ your song. _That_ doesn’t come from just nothing. Why can’t you just-“ she shakes her head, pinches at the bridge of her nose, frustrated, “- _I don’t know!_ Cuss me out, call me a bitch or something. _Camila_ , you can literally _feel_ how much you were hurting in the song. I contributed to that pain whether you’re going to acknowledge it or not.”

You shake your head. “It’s been years, Lucy. I’m over it, I’m over her,” you tell her. Neither of you believe that last part.

You see her take a deep breath. “Fine,” she caves. “But just accept my apology - for my own sanity. The guilt of not hearing you say you forgive me will eat me alive.”

You smile then. You’re fine with that compromise. “I forgive you.”

Her lips mirror yours. She pulls you in for a hug and despite you knowing she really holds no blame, the conversation feels like a stepping stone towards helping you really put this chapter behind you. When she lets go, you feel lighter, a weight off your shoulders.

“And hey,” she adds, a playful look on her face, “if you still wanna have a taste of these…” she trails off suggestively, making a show of swiping her tongue across the pink of her lips.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat there.

“I’m just saying! I’m always down—“

You shove her lightly away, scoff on your breath. “You’re insufferable.”

“‘Cause it sounded a little bit like you were _kinda_ into me—“

 _“Thunder, attack!”_ you point at Lucy, but your overgrown puppy only jumps at her, playful in the way he nibbles on her hands.

“Not cool, Cabello,” she shakes her head as she fends off his harmless bites. “Turning your adorable dog on me? That’s one way to reject a girl.”

Your laugh is light and genuine and the taste of it is unfamiliar since the recent weeks. You look at Lucy being attacked with kisses by your dog and for the first time since you’ve met her, the bitter taste of jealousy isn’t coated on your tongue.

You look at her and you see a person, not someone you’ve idealised and put onto a pedestal, just someone who loved the same someone you loved, someone who was just lucky enough to be loved by them in return.

“Thanks, Lucy,” you tell her. They’re two words, but they carry so much. She doesn’t respond, but she nods, smiles at you, and for once, you really believe you’ll be okay.

//

 _Girl Crush_ climbs into the Top 10 of Billboard’s Top 100 by the end of its second week of being released, and the higher ups are pleased. Your entire team lets out a collective breath of relief.

No one was expecting a number one hit - not from a slow paced, country-inspired song, dropped towards the end of summer. Charting at #8 is enough for your team to bring out the champagne, toasting you for a successful record.

You don’t forget to send over a bottle of champagne to the people at Epic, the note attached to it reading: _‘Here’s your Top 10 :)’_

//

You weren’t naïve enough to believe that you’d never run into each other. As big as the industry is, it’s small. If not at an award show, you’re bound to meet at a party or some other event.

You just really didn’t think that it’d be at the same award show you’ve been given a slot to perform the live TV debut of a song that is so _undoubtedly_ about her, _in front_ of her.

You get the news that she’ll be in attendance at your last rehearsal before the show. No one comments on how the mic slips from your hand, dropping with a screeching thud.

Your grip on the neck of your guitar tightens just as your lungs do. You vaguely question if it’s too late to pull out, but a collective voice dressed in crisp suits and uncompassionate looks in the back of your mind berates you about your lack of _professionalism_.

Later, you’re in your seat while the opening monologue runs and you can’t help but sneak looks around you, trying to see where she is to know exactly where to avoid looking when you’re up there performing.

You can’t spot her from where you’re sitting, and that does nothing to calm your nerves. You’re greatly regretting turning down their offer for a plus one, because you could _really_ be using the comfort of your mother’s hand in yours right now.

The show passes faster than you’d like, but you can partly blame that on the amount of champagne you’ve been accepting from the waiters that pass by you during the commercial breaks. You barely realise it, but suddenly someone with a clipboard and a headset is coming up to you, calling for you to go backstage to get ready for your set.

You chug another flute off a waitress that’s passing by. _Liquid courage,_ you tell yourself.

You’re changed into a new outfit, your hair fixed, and then you’re having your guitar shoved into your hands and being ushered towards where you’re meant to wait until they’re ready for you.

You recognise a couple of faces that pass you, acquaintances in the industry, but none of their _‘Good luck out there!’s_ actually work to make you feel any better.

You’re standing on the stage, guitar slung across your shoulder, your band behind you, waiting for the lights, for the curtains to pull open, for your introduction to be called (and for the inevitable mispronunciation of your name).

When you hear _“... and performing the live TV debut of her hit single, Girl Crush… Camila Cabello!” (with the Ls in both names emphasised on),_ you take a deep breath, you count to three, and with a nod to your band, you start.

//

_I want her long brown hair, I want her magic touch_

_Yeah, 'cause maybe then, you'd want me just as much_

//

You find her during the second verse.

Your eyes are already watery from the chorus, your voice cracking at the one line. You have to squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to be pulled together.

When you reopen them, when you start on the second first, your throat feeling slightly dry and gravely, you kind of wished you’d kept your eyes closed.

She’s sitting at the right side, somewhere in the front rows, the opposite end from where you were seated. You find those unmistakable green eyes, taking in her ivory skin, dark hair, painted lips, and all you can think is how beautiful she is.

You see who’s next to her and you’re reminded of everything you can’t have.

You stumble over the next lines, but your fingers move on their own, letting muscle memory taking over. You already know there’s going to be about fifty different videos replaying your voice cracking, how you messed up the lyrics, criticising you for not being able to sing or something to that effect, but you barrel through.

You avert your gaze, actively not meeting her eyes, reminding yourself that you’re in front of an entire audience that has their attention towards you, that this is televised to countless people all over the country, to people probably scattered all around the world.

Still, you push through, reminding yourself that this is what you’re meant to do, that you’ve found your purpose and it’s to perform, to share your art, that it isn’t to fawn over Lauren Jauregui anymore.

Your eyes fall shut. You let your body sway to the music, the nerves from earlier all but a distant memory now. You let it seem as though you’re simply feeling the music, that you’re so extremely consumed by it. Really, you just can’t trust yourself not to stare at her throughout the entire song.

Only when you hear applause fill the venue do you even realise you’re done. You catch a couple of familiar faces standing and applauding you, smiles on their faces as they cheer you on, but the only face you’re caught on, the only one in the sea of people, is hers.

When your eyes find hers, she’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. There was once a time when you knew every face she made - what the twitch at the corner of her mouth meant, whether the smile she casted your way was genuine or not, how she’d scrunch her brows when you’d have your head between her legs with your name on her breath - but that was then. She looks at you, the same striking green eyes, those same lips you’d once worshiped, and yet you barely recognise her.

The last thing you see before the lights fall and the stage dims is her boyfriend leaning over, whispering something in her ear. She breaks from your hold, replying him with her lips curving at the corners, her eyes squinting. Time might have passed but you _know_ that smile. It’s the one she’d shine your way once in awhile, and later, the very same one you’d feel your heart breaking over when she’d share it with Lucy. You know that smile and everything just hurts again.

//

_I don't get no sleep, I don't get no peace_

_Thinking about her under your bed sheets_

//

She picks up on the first dial tone.

_“Hello?”_

You hear her voice and you freeze. Despite telling yourself over and over again that you’re _done_ , that you _can’t_ feel like that anymore, you hear her voice and you feel needles in your heart.

 _“Camila?”_ You hear your name, coming out a bit raspy, a bit sweet, and you snap out of it. _“Hey, you there?”_

“Why did she break up with you?”

The line stays quiet for a moment. Another passes and you regret being so blunt with your words.

When Lucy does answer, there’s a soft laugh on her breath. _“I’m kind of offended you’re so sure_ she _broke up with_ me,” she says, her words light. It helps calm you down, brings you back to earth. Then, _“After you left it got kind of… strained, I guess. Probably since we were outed, really. But after you… it really affected her.”_

You hold your breath, suddenly terrified that any sound at all would stop her.

 _“She started getting closer to Ty- and don’t even ask me how that happened, because I really didn’t see that coming. And—“_ she breaks off. You shut your eyes, focussed on her soft breathing. Guilt rises in you when you realise how selfish you’re being about this. You tend to forget that Lucy loved Lauren too, that she hurt too. _“I told her I wasn’t comfortable with it, but I knew she kept hanging out with him. It went on for a couple more weeks before I told her she needed to either let me go, or listen to me when I tell her I feel uncomfortable about something._

 _“I set the ultimatum, and she broke up with me.”_ There’s a soft sigh from her end of the line, and you know there’s a shrug on her shoulders at it, a show of nonchalance that the both of you see right through. The same thing you do when you talk about her, so convinced it still doesn’t hurt you.

“Did she…?” you trail off. You can’t even utter the word.

 _“No, no,”_ Lucy denies, adamant about it. _“Lauren’s a lot of things, but she’s not a cheater. She’d never. I think she_ was _waiting for an out. She loved me, I_ know _she did, but I think she felt guilty for dragging me into this whole mess, so she felt like she couldn’t break up with me. She just needed a little shove, I guess.”_

You nod despite knowing she can’t see you. “Can I ask you another question?”

She hums, prompting you to continue.

“Do you still love her?”

She lets out a hollow laugh on her end. _“Lauren’s not the kind of person you stop loving so easily. I’ve moved on,”_ she says, _“But I don’t think I’ve stopped loving her.”_

You shake your head, wiping away the tears that have begun to well in your eyes.

 _“Can I ask_ you _one?”_

“Mhm.”

_“Do you?”_

A wet laugh drops from your lips, humourless.

“We both know the answer to that.”

//

The industry is small, but world isn’t.

Which is why you don’t quite expect to bump into Lauren Jauregui while at the farmer’s market, waiting in line for some artisanal cheese, of all places.

Sofi’s the one who spots her first. You’re busy texting your mom, asking her if she needs anything for the house, your other hand in Sofi’s, when she tugs on it, and excited, “Hey, it’s Laur—“ tumbles out of her mouth before she cuts herself off.

It’s enough to grab your attention though. You look up, following Sofi’s line of sight, and you see her, dressed in a simple slip dress, black and ending just after her knees, shoulders exposed and looking as beautiful as ever.

The smile you were wearing drops. But then you see the guilty look on Sofi’s face, and you’re quick to reassure her that it’s okay. You know how much Sofi adored Lauren, how she looked up to her as a big sister as well, and you especially know just how torn she was when you told her you’d broken up.

“You can say hi if you want, Sof,” you tell her, nodding towards where Lauren stands with her eyes on her phone. “I’ll just go ahead and grab the stuff that mamí needs,” you say with a gentle smile. “It’s okay,” you nod once more. “I’m alright.”

You flash her a parting smile before you nudge her in that direction, making sure to keep your eyes on her until just before she reaches Lauren, then turning and heading towards the fruit stand.

You hear her laugh even from all the way there - you’ve always been so hyper aware of everything that she is, so in tune to everything she does - and you figure this is your self control is being tested. You don’t let yourself give into temptation, actively forcing yourself not to turn at the knowledge she stands a mere several feet away from you.

You busy yourself with meticulously choosing your fruits, putting years of your mother’s and your grandmother’s advice on exactly how a good watermelon should _sound_ to good use.

When you feel a familiar presence by appear by your side, you turn, flashing a smile at Sofi. Just as you’re about to ask her to help grab a some oranges, she says,

“Lauren wants to talk to you!”

You freeze at that, your hand stilling on the papaya you were reaching to grab.

Once you force yourself to respond, you look at Sofi and she’s staring at you with that bright, innocent grin and you don’t really know how to tell her _no._

 _“Sof…”_ You trail off, buying yourself some time to conjure up a sorry excuse to get out of this. You go for a half-truth. “There’s a few too many people here,” you tell her. There are, and despite hiding under a cap and a pair of shades, you’re still easily recognisable. “I don’t think she’d want for us to be caught having a conversation.”

“That’s why she asked me to ask you to meet her at her car!”

You only accept because Sofi’s still looking at you with hopeful eyes and you just wished you could for once say no to your sister. So, you pay for the fruits, taking your time in collecting all the bags before you let Sofi lead you.

You catch sight of her, leaning against her car - a dark, shiny vintage cadillac, the exact same model you remember her telling you was her dream car - looking down at her phone and you forget how to breathe. You stop in your tracks, reaching forward to tug on Sofi’s arm, pulling her back.

“I, uh- I can’t, Sof,” you say, but she flashes a confused look and you feel the need to make up an excuse, “If she wants to talk, I can’t really have you there and I can’t let you wander around on your own.”

But still, Sofi only smiles, lightens up at your words. “Oh, she’s here with a friend. Alexa, I think, and she said that she’ll hang out with me while you two talk,” she tells you and if it could, your heart sinks even deeper. “And plus, I have my phone, I’ll call you if anything, okay?”

You realise you have no way out of this unless you tell Sofi the truth, unless you tell her that you _can’t_ talk to Lauren, that hearing her voice will just completely undo you. You can’t tell her that, because you’re her big sister, you’re the one who always has it together, the one she looks up to. You can’t be a good role model to your little sister if you’re still so fucking hung up over an ex from years ago.

So instead, you nod, letting Sofi lead you the rest of the way.

Lauren looks up at the sound of your footsteps approaching and you meet her eyes and you press on as convincing a smile as you can manage her way. She sends one back and you swear you feel your heart stop momentarily.

She ruffles Sofi’s hair, sends her a quick thanks before she points over to where Alexa is, by the streetlight with her phone to her ear. Sofi nods at her, sends you a reassuring smile. You’re not sure if it says _‘I’ll be okay,’_ or if it’s _‘you’ll be okay’._

You wait and watch until Sofi reaches Alexa, who puts an end to her phone call when she does. You see them talking, but they’re too far for you to make anything of it, but then Sofi’s pointing towards you and Alexa’s waving and you just return it. Suddenly, you don’t have any more reasons to prolong this inevitable conversation, so you turn on your heel, looking at Lauren.

“Nice car,” you comment, nodding at the vehicle.

She smiles, “Thanks. It was a gift,” she says and you don’t want to know from who. “Shall we?”

You get in wordlessly, and after both your doors close shut, you’re sat there in an awkward silence as you figure out what to do with the fruits you’ve been carrying before finally deciding to place the bag of mangoes on the floor next to your feet while placing a whole watermelon on your lap. You already hate this.

You take off your sunglasses, hanging it on the neck of your shirt, but leave the cap on.

She starts the car, putting it into drive and you eye her confusedly. “I figure we can take a drive round the block or something. I’ll have you back in no less than twenty,” she promises.

You let out a deep breath but your anxiety is building. You force yourself to take three more, and then another two, trying to calm yourself down, because there’s nothing more embarrassing than having a panic attack in front of your ex at the thought of having a _conversation_ with them. The dark, tinted glass doesn’t do much to help.

By the time you’ve calmed down, you’re already on the main road.

“I heard your song.”

And you’ve heard that line more than enough for one lifetime.

“Yeah,” you muster, “I saw you.”

 _“Yeah,”_ she trails off. You look everywhere besides at her, keeping your eyes glued to outside the car, taking in the shop lots and restaurants as though you don’t already frequent this area.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come and find you or something.”

That’s an apology you really don’t expect. You turn to her, frown in your brows.

“I wasn’t really expecting you to.” You hear how it sounds like the moment it comes out of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound that rude,” you apologise earnestly.

But she only laughs. “That’s alright. But also, I mean _before_ that,” she says, “I heard it when it first came out, and coincidentally thought _you_ were coming out with it. I just saw _‘Girl Crush Camila’_ trending on Twitter and I heard it and I thought, _damn, that’s one way to come out_ , but then—“

“You and like, a good two thirds of my fans,” you cut in. “Yeah, _but then_ they made me spin it. I mean, it was the deal from the start - play it off to be about Matthew instead,” you shrug. “Either way, it got me the Top 10 that they wanted.”

“But it isn’t.”

“What?”

“It isn’t about him, right?”

You feel your heart sink. You don’t want to be having this conversation, not yet, not ever. But still, you shake your head.

“Is it…” she stops at the red light, trailing off as she prepares her next words. “Is it about me? About Lucy and I?”

You barely realise you’re holding your breath. The light changes to green and she starts driving once more, and you realise she must’ve made you have this conversation in a moving car so you wouldn’t be able to leave so easily.

“Yeah.”

It comes out soft, just barely over the gentle whirring of the car.

“I mean, it’s not like there’s been anyone else for me to write about,” you say, trying to pass it off as a joke, an attempt to lighten the mood. But once you hear your own words, you realise just how pathetic you sound.

You notice how her knuckles have turned white, the grip she holds on her steering wheel tight. You’re not too sure what to make of it.

“There’s really been no one else?”

Her eyes remain on the road, and you understand the second reason why a car conversation was requested. Lauren never quite liked eye contact when it came to serious conversations.

“At the risk of admitting how lame I am,” you say, “no, no one else.” You feel the air around you tense. “It’s a little hard being an in-the-closet pop star with an aggressively heterosexual image to keep up,” you joke, then teasing, “But you know a thing or two about that.”

A soft laugh falls from her lips. You try your hardest not to let your stare get caught on them.

“I do,” she says. “But it’s a lot easier now.”

You can’t help it. “Must be nice,” just tumbles out of your mouth, a bitter murmur. You shake your head, cursing yourself. “I don’t mean that in a shady way-“ you backtrack, “I just meant—“

Lauren nods, understanding. She spares you a glance, her gaze gentle and everything you want to drown in. “I know. And I really hope one day it gets easier for you. You deserve to be who you are. Everyone does.”

Lauren seems to be full of surprises today. It renders you speechless, unable to really say anything besides a quiet, “Thanks.”

It falls quiet. She doesn’t say anything and neither do you. You’re almost scared that one misstep could break this fragile peace you have between the two of you.

You don’t realise it, but you’re already nearing the farmer’s market once more. You also don’t realise it, but you’re counting down the seconds until you can escape this car.

“When did you write it?” she asks suddenly, the air around you snapping. “Was it after? Or… then?”

You take a deep breath. You tell yourself that this is good, it’s free therapy right here. “Then,” you answer. “I- I was feeling especially bad about myself, like, like I really could never be enough, like I was nothing.” You’re stumbling through it, but you’re getting through it nonetheless. There’s a part of you that is so desperately trying to catch all these words as they leave your mouth, but a bigger part of you tells you it needs to come out. “I could barely eat, and sleeping without any medication was practically impossible then, so I wrote. I wrote and a couple songs came out, and this was one of them.

“And I felt good. It was cathartic to have it all on paper, to listen back to it, to finally have it be _tangible_ and not so much just in my head.”

You’re not moving anymore, you noticed. She’s parked once more, her eyes now on you. You’ve never been more grateful for wearing a cap, glad for some the shadow it casts over your face, not needing for Lauren to see the pain in your eyes.

“Yeah,” she says, a nod. Then, “I didn’t ever mean to hurt you.”

You hear the apology in her words and you can’t help but think of all the words she’d spat at you, venom laced in them, _knowing_ it’d hurt you. Her relationship with Lucy might not be a part of that, but you _know_ she has said and did things just to hurt you.

You don’t want to get into that, though. So you say, “I know.”

You hope it’s enough to sate her guilt because you _need_ to _leave,_ you need to go home and cry in your room, you need your mother to console you and tell you _it’s okay_. You need to leave.

“I just—“

“Lauren,” you interrupt, unable to stay another minute cooped up in this car with her. “I don’t feel good leaving my sister with other people, so I should really get going and find her,” you tell her.

She opens her mouth to say something else,  but it falls shut, defeated, before she finally nods. “You’re right, I’m sorry for keeping you.”

You wonder if she knows all the meanings her words hold.

“Right,” you say, leaning down to pick up the tote bag by your feet, moving to scoop the damned watermelon safely into your hold, “I’m going.”

You push open the door, turning to face her and flashing her a parting smile before you move to get out. But your wrist gets caught on something, and you _know_ what it is, you _know_ that touch, you know _her_ touch.

It’s seems impossible, but you’ve not touched her in almost two years, you’ve not felt her skin on yours since that last day. Your body aches for her, crumbling at even the feel of her fingers looped around your wrist in a gentle hold.

You meet her eyes. Sparkling green. You wonder if she can see the tears in yours.

“Everything I said to you, the night we… we ended things, and the night you... _left-_ “ her grip tightens, just slightly, eyes boring into yours, “Every horrible thing I ever said- I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of that. Please don’t think I feel that way about you.”

You shake your head, trying to grasp her words, or wake yourself up from this dream.

She lets go of your wrist and you can breathe once more.

You look at her, conflicted. Her stare pierces through you - those eyes have always been your downfall. You don’t think there’ll ever be a time when you don’t look at her and it doesn’t hurt.

You pull yourself away. You send her one last look, eyes glassy, before you force your feet to move. You don’t spare her another glance - the temptation to turn back around is too much for you.

You’re quick to find Sofi - true to her word, staying with Alexa, who you mutter a quick _‘thanks’_ to before you all but drag her aside, away, just- anywhere but _here._

You ignore Sofi’s questions _(“What happened? Kaki? Why are you crying? What did she say?”),_ set on just getting home so you can properly cry this out, so you can properly get her out of your system.

But it’s a half hour later, and you’re locked in your room, wrapped around yourself with tears staining your cheeks, and _still_ all you can feel is the touch Lauren has burnt onto your skin.

//

_The way that she's whispering, the way that she's pullin’ you in_

_Lord knows I've tried, I can't get her off my mind_

//

You find yourself spending more and more time with Lucy.

It’s a sort of therapy, you find - bonding with your ex-girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend, over said ex-girlfriend. The irony of it doesn’t at all go over your head.

But you find it cathartic - talking to Lucy. The more time you spend with her, the more you realise she isn’t exactly this _perfect_ being your mind had set her out to be, the idealisation of everything you couldn’t be.

“What was it like? When you were with her?”

There’s a pensive look on her face for a moment. Her eyes meet yours and she smiles.

“It was good - really good. I really loved her, I was really in love with her.” A ghost of a smile pulls at your lips. You too remember the feeling of being in love with Lauren. Honestly, it’s harder for you to remember a time when you weren’t in some way or another in love with Lauren.

“She was carefree. She’d smile all the time, her laugh was a constant. She made me happy and I’d like to think that I made her happy too.”

“You did,” you say. Both of you ignore how strained your words come out. “I once overheard her talking to Dinah about you. She was happy,” you confirm with a nod.

Lucy looks at you with a soft eyes. “She was my first real love,” she tells you, her gaze flitting to her fingers. “Even though it ended badly, I’ll never regret being with her.”

You nod. You know what she means. Maybe you had more bad times than good times compared to Lucy, but still, you don’t think you’d ever regret falling for Lauren.

“Did it hurt?”

Your smirk is almost immediate. “When I fell from heav--”

“Don’t even finish that,” Lucy cuts you off, rolling her eyes playfully. “I phrased it badly,” she shakes her head, then, “I meant- how bad was it? After? _You know…_ seeing us.”

Your lips curve in nostalgia. “Bad,” you answer. You know there’s no point in sugarcoating anything with Lucy - she’s not going to accept anything less than the truth. “I hated you,” you admit. There’s a flash of guilt that flits over her face and you immediately feel bad. “For awhile, at least,” you say. You try, but you can’t keep the hardness out of your voice. “I saw you two, smiling and laughing. She was giggling and her eyes- they were light when she was with you, and meanwhile, I was still _dying_. I hated her, then I hated you, then her again, then-”

You catch yourself, taking a deep breath. It all rushes back to you and it’s too much. You gather yourself, bringing yourself back to earth. When you open your eyes, Lucy’s looking at you with a patient stare, prompting you to go on, but not at all rushing you.

“Then I actually _saw_ you two, smiling and laughing. And she was giggling, and her eyes were _light.”_ There’s a softness in your voice to go with the slight curve on your lips. “She was happy and I couldn’t hate her for that. She got what I always wanted for her,” you tell her, words gentle, “Granted, I wanted to be the one giving her that happiness, but I got over that part after awhile. So, I stopped hating her and I stopped hating you. And then-”

“You started hating yourself?”

You forget just how honest Lucy is. It’s harsh, but refreshing.

You nod. “I did,” the admission tastes bitter on your tongue.

“Do you still?”

You shake your head. You’re terrified that she’ll be able to hear the lie in your voice, so you stay quiet, hoping she’ll take that as enough for an answer.

A moment passes, the two of you looking at each other. Her stare is so open that you need to look away. “So,” Lucy starts, and you meet her eyes once more, finding her looking at you with a quirked brow over the rim of her mug, “are you gonna meet up with her?”

Your answer is immediate. You shake your head, adamant with the serious furrow in your brows. She holds your stare for about two seconds, then— “I mean… I don’t know yet.”

You’re not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, Lucy’s become your confidant. You’ve told her about the conversation with Lauren in her car, how every time she met your eyes you felt yourself unraveling once more, how you can still feel her fingers wrapped around your wrist, and about the text Lauren had sent you two days later.

The message read _‘You still in town?’,_  then, _‘Can I see you?’,_ dated more than a whole two years after your last conversation with her. It takes everything in you not to scroll up. Instead, you just screenshot the chat, opening Lucy’s and sending it her way, captioned, _‘_ **_woah deja vu am i right haha_ ** _’._

But you’d stopped _that_ conversation there, informing Lucy that you weren’t going to reply Lauren. You knew then that Lucy wasn’t at all convinced, and her question today just confirms it.

“When you go, just… don’t do anything dumb. Don’t get hurt again.”

She says it like a fact. You don’t bother disputing it.

You want to assure her she has nothing to worry about, that you’re past that phase in your life where you’re hopeless for Lauren, but you’re not even too sure that you are. So, you don’t say anything. You nod, a smile on your lips, pretending like the both of you don’t know exactly what the inevitable is.

//

You _want_ to say that you don’t know how you got here, but you know _exactly_ how you got here.

You know that the only person there is to blame for ending up with your face buried between Lauren Jauregui’s legs is yourself.

It hits you all at once. You’re lying with your cheek rested against her pelvis, body draped over hers, the feel of her fingers running through your tangled hair, the smell of sex lingering in the air around you.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, trying to bask in the moment, revel in the fact that you’re _with_ her once again, but when your eyes close, all you see is flashes of everything - of the empty look on Lauren’s face as she tells you _‘I can’t do this anymore,’_ how you’d locked yourself in your room for weeks on end, not eating and barely sleeping, how you found her a couple months later giggling into Lucy’s neck, _Lucy_ , leaving, Ty and-- _oh fuck, Ty._

Lauren must see the panic in your eyes when you push yourself up, away from her, because a string of, _“What? What- Camz, baby, what’s wrong?”_ spills from her mouth, worry in her eyes. Maybe if the air wasn’t so suffocating, you’d be caught on the way she says, _‘baby,’_ or how she’d called you _Camz_ again, but it is, and it feels like the air’s not coming in, your lungs grasping for something, for anything.

She tries to pull you back, sitting up as she cups your face, but you meet her eyes and it’s just a reminder of everything and--

_“Don’t touch me.”_

You see the hurt that flashes across her face, but you’re too busy pushing yourself away from her, sat curled at the edge of the bed. The sheets, your skin - it all smell like sex, and you want to burn it all off of you. Still, you pull the sheets tighter around your body, feeling too exposed in front of her.

 _“Camz,”_ you hear pressed softly, just barely over the thudding sound of your heartbeat in your ears. “Look at me.” Lauren’s voice breaks through the piercing noise in your head. You meet her eyes, her green, green eyes, and nod. You barely notice it, but she’s moving her hands slowly back up, carefully moving to hold your face in her hands.

You feel her thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones. You let her this time, not pushing her away. Her touch is bringing yourself back, pulling you back into yourself.

“You’re okay,” she says, words dripping with so much conviction that you too start to believe it.

The sound of your heartbeat starts to dull, fading into the background. You take a few breaths, deep, following the rise and fall of Lauren’s chest.

“I’m okay,” you reassure, nodding, after a moment of recollecting yourself. You know she’s seen you like this more times than you can count, but still, you can’t help but to feel embarrassed.

You pull away, but slowly this time, moving her touch off your skin, turning away and not meeting her eyes.

“What happened?” she asks, quiet and calm. She doesn’t make a move to get closer, nor does she force you to look at her.

“I just- I _promised_ I wouldn’t end up back here.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but you know she hears you, the sharp intake of her breath indication enough. “And now, I’m _exactly_ where I was two years ago, and to top it off,” you scoff, unable to keep it from falling from your lips, “I just helped you _cheat.”_

You manage to slip in a look Lauren’s way, sure that with your reminder, you’d see guilt flashing across her features. But she only looks confused.

“I’m not- I didn’t _cheat,”_ she says, almost spitting out the last word. “I wouldn’t do that, Camila.” Her voice is hard and cold, and now you’re the one confused.

You shake your head, “Ty-”

“We broke up,” she tells you. Her brows are still furrowed in hard lines. “I broke up with him.”

“I _saw_ you guys - at the awards-”

“I broke up with him after the AMAs. And, I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s not because I saw you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” You weren’t. “I just don’t want you to start feeling bad about that too.”

“Then why?”

“I caught him with some drugs, like _hard_ shit,” she admits quietly. “I mean, he was arrested before then for possession, but he told me he stopped doing stuff like that awhile ago, and that it was his friends’ and I guess I let myself believe him. But I saw him with my own eyes doing it and I couldn’t make excuses for him anymore. I don’t mess with that kind of shit.”

“I’m sorry, Laur.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, the oversized shirt she wears slipping off her shoulder. But quickly her mood turns. “But what isn’t fine is that you’d assume I’d _cheat_ . I’m not _like_ that, Camila. I might not be the perfect girlfriend to anyone, but I _don’t_ cheat.” You nod, feeling terrible for throwing out that kind of accusation. But when she continues, voice rising, “And what does that say about _you?”_ you snap your head towards her. “You thought I was in a relationship and you still slept with me. What does that say about you, then?”

You can only manage to blink at her. You have to tell yourself that Lauren is angry, that when she’s like this, she says things she doesn’t mean, that she’s not actually out here to hurt you. But the accusation in her voice sounds too real to be written off as anger. Your resolve breaks.

“What it _says_ about me is that I’m still so _pathetically_ in love with you. It says that when I’m around you, you manage to make me forget about everyone and everything else outside the two of us. It says that I’ll let you hurt me, _over_ and _over_ again, without so much of a promise that you’d ever want me back. When I see you, I’m caught in a bubble and it’s suffocating and I just want to get out, but I can’t because of the power you hold over me.

"It says I’m weak, and _yeah,_ my subconscious _still_ thought you were in a relationship, so that’s on me, but _your_ subconscious _knows_ how hopeless I am for you, and you used that to your own advantage, and that’s on you.”

She scrubs her hand over her face in frustration. “What do you want me to say? I know I fucked up, I know I _keep_ fucking up when it comes to you, but--”

“ _Sorry_ would be great for starters.”

“You _know_ I am, but I just- it doesn’t feel right to say it when I can barely do anything to really show you.”

You see the desperation in her eyes. You know you should let it rest here, that you shouldn’t get into this when your emotions are running at a high. But it’s been rising in you for so long now and it’s beginning to boil over.

“So instead, you give me _this?_ A rebound fuck? _That_ feels right? _Fuck, Lauren -_ at this point, I don’t _care_ if you don’t mean it.” You’re exasperated, incredibly tired, and frankly just done with this entire thing. “It’d just be nice to hear those words come out of your mouth for _once_ . Maybe a _‘Hey, I’m sorry it didn’t work out how we planned,’_ or an _‘I just want to apologise for tugging you around for the better part of a year,’_ or better yet, _‘Camila, I’m sorry for making you feel like an experiment, only to fall head over fucking heels in love with another girl a couple months later.’”_

There are tears in Lauren’s eyes, welled up, the green glassed over. “Camz, I didn’t mean to-”

“You said you were straight, Lauren.”

The words leave your mouth with a humourless laugh. “You kissed me first, you took my virginity, you made me fall even deeper in love with you, and then you told me you were straight. You said you were straight, then you were kissing Lucy in front of the rest of the girls and--” You shake your head, a smile on your lips despite everything you’re saying. Looking at her, it just reminds you of everything, so you try not to. You turn away, moving off the bed as you go to grab your clothes that lay scattered on her bedroom floor. “You should’ve told me you just didn’t love me from the start.”

You don’t look at her as you slip your shirt back on, not as you button your shorts, and you surely don’t spare her a glance as you leave.

“You wouldn’t let me go.”

You’re at her door when she speaks up. You don’t turn around, but you don’t move either.

“You kept wanting to try again. We were fighting so much and it was tiring, Camila.” Her voice is shaky, quiet, vulnerable, and it takes all of you to not turn back around and hold her in your arms. “You wanted to come out, but I was too scared of management back then, so I’d listen to them and you’d get upset and we’d just keep fighting. I kept telling you I couldn’t do it anymore, but you loved me _so much_ you wouldn’t let me go.

“I didn’t know how else I could get you to.”

You move to wipe away the tears that trail down your cheek, but you will yourself not to look at her. Her words are still processing in your head, your thoughts in a whirlwind now.

“I lied about that. I said I was straight because I knew it would make you back off, but saying I didn’t love you would’ve been a way bigger lie, and I don’t think I would’ve been able to convince you that was the truth.”

You don’t believe her. You don’t know how to anymore. There are layers upon layers of lies when it comes to Lauren, from both you and her, and you don’t know where it stops.

You don’t know how to make sense of it, so you don’t. You walk away.

//

The next day, you take the first flight out. You tell your parents it’s a work thing, and you tell Roger it’s a family thing.

Your poor assistant has to scramble to book you the flights, the hotel, arranging the transportation, and you make note to give her a raise for pulling this off in record time. You make sure that no one besides her knows exactly where you’re going.

The moment you land in St Lucia, you already feel a bit better.

Natalia had somehow managed to book you a quiet resort at a desolate part of the island - its view breathtaking, overlooking the vast and lush tropics just before it opens to the Caribbean sea. You’re impressed that she even managed to get you a room given the short notice, much less in a place this nice.

You’re surrounded by rich greens and deep blues, the smell in the air a different kind of fresh, and your thoughts are cleared. The sun feels different on your skin here - Miami burns, but here, it’s a kind of warmth that makes you feel safe. The air isn’t suffocating, and the tightness in your lungs dissipates.

You’re sat by the private pool that’s attached to your suite, feet dipped in the water as you lean perched on your elbows, sunglasses hanging off the bridge of your nose while you simply look out ahead of you, the sun tickling your exposed skin as you take in the view. Your stare follows the mountainous greens, the expanse of the ocean and the open sky.

It’s gorgeous, truly. The views are something you could only dream about ever seeing in person when you were growing up, and you really do appreciate mother nature for all its wonders - but you’re a restless person, never quite able to sit still doing just nothing for too long, so you cave, breaking your vow to remain unplugged, by plugging right back in.

When you put your phone off airplane mode, several texts come through, flooding in and bombarding you with questions you don’t really want to answer right now. You see Lauren’s name appear in the fold, but you ignore it for now.

Among the texts from your family group chat, work and Ashlee, you see one from Shawn.

You immediately perk up at that.

He sends you an audio of a song he’s working on. You know it’s in its early stages with how he hums over some words and how the production really isn’t there yet. Still, you listen to it and you know you already love it. Shawn has a way with his melodies and works a guitar beautifully, and this song is no exception.

The two of you do this often - sharing your songs with each other, asking for opinions and thoughts. After your family, he was the first one you’d showed your album to once it was done, and he did the same to you for his.

You send him a string of emojis, all hearts and hearteyes, telling him **_‘i love it!!!’_ ** _,_ before typing out how excited you are for it to come out.

When he replies four minutes later, he writes, _‘What do u think?’_ then, a second later, _‘Ikwydls pt 2?’_

You know exactly what he means by that, and you can’t help the grin that grows on your lips.

**_how free are u in like the next few days?_ **

_Pretty free. No scheduled interviews or anyth. Why?_

**_wanna come to st lucia? i’m bored and could use a best friend rn_ **

_Srs?_

**_very!! u can stay with me. the suite’s pretty big_ **

You see the ellipsis appear and disappear a couple times before it’s gone completely. You don’t think too much about it, especially not when three minutes later, you see Shawn send you a picture of the confirmation of his flight to Hewanorra International Airport, meant to arrive tomorrow and you can’t help from fist pumping, glad that no one else saw that dorky moment.

//

You were willing to bet all your money on Shawn bringing his guitar along, and just as expected, he did.

The moment you get back from the airport after picking him up, the two of you  get changed before you head to the pool area. You sit on one end of the wooden swing that overlooks the pool and the entire view, your laptop balanced on one thigh and your journal in your hand. Shawn appears a moment later, changed into a pair of navy swim shorts and a guitar in his hold.

You recognise it immediately.

“Really? The same one?” you smile.

He shrugs, “For sentimental value,” he tells you, shining that charming grin of his your way. You know for a fact that if you were at all into men, you’d so be melting over it, and it’s mainly one of the reasons you’re pretty much a hundred percent sure you’ve no sexual or romantic attraction towards men, because if a shirtless _Shawn Mendes_ has no effect on you, what man will?

It’s the guitar he’d used when the two of you were working on _I Know What You Did Last Summer._ You know that since then, he’s acquired much better ones, but you also know that Shawn Mendes is a total sap, so it’s extremely in character of him to keep it nonetheless.

“I’ve got space for a verse for you,” Shawn says, playing with his phone before you hear the track playing. His voice escapes the speaker, smooth and sweet. At the part where he begins humming more than he sings, he stops the music. “This part,” he points out. “I’m thinking a verse from you, then we can work on a bridge for you sing, and you can hop onto the second chorus with me.”

You nod, telling him to continue playing the track for you to listen.

You’re not sure how he’s managed it, but Shawn’s just offered you the perfect song. You’ve not told him anything yet, and still this song is everything you need and more.

“It’s about wanting to move on,” he tells you as he strums idly on his guitar. “It’s knowing that you probably can’t, but really wanting and needing to.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge whether he does somehow know about your current predicament, or if he’s just _that_ in sync with you. You don’t think he does, not when he’s more concerned with getting his plucking right than anything else.

“You know you’re the best, right?”

When you say it, pink rises in his cheeks. “What did I do?”

You smile, but you shake your head. “Not important right now,” you tell him, “I’ll catch you up later.”

He stares at you unsurely, but doesn’t question it. Shawn knows you well enough to let you tell him things in your own time.

He shrugs, turning back to his guitar as he sings softly over the music. You do the same, listening intently to his playing as you begin to scribble out words into your journal.

By the time night falls, you’re a little tanner than you were in the morning and Shawn’s a lot redder than he was in, like, ever. The two of you have figured out the bridge, and you’re still working on your verse, but the record is coming nicely together. Then by the time you’re finishing up the room service, you’ve already caught Shawn up to everything that’s happened in the whirlwind last few weeks.

He looks at you with his mouth slightly agape, a small furrow in his brows. “So… you’re friends with Lucy now?” he asks and you nod. “Lauren’s Lucy?” You hate that descriptor, but you’re sure if anyone was confused as to which Camila you were, they too would say _Lauren’s Camila, right?,_ so you nod again. “And… you met with Lauren?”

“Yeah.”

“And you were catching up?”

“Mhm.”

“And that somehow led to you sleeping with her?” he asks, scratching his head.

“ _Somehow_ , it did,” you answer. “I guess we had a lot of catching up to do,” you shrug, trying a grin on your lips.

_“Mila…”_

“I know it’s bad! But, she- she still has this _thing_ over me and I just become _stupid_ when I’m with her and I _say_ stupid things and I _do_ stupid things, and it felt so good, _you know?_ To be with her, just the two of us, not thinking about anything outside the room for awhile, but now… I just feel pathetic.”

At that he shakes his head. “You’re not pathetic,” he says with so much certainty. “You’re just still caught on her.”

“Which, after all these years, _is_ pathetic.”

“It just shows how much you love people when you love them.”

A sad smile tugs at your lips.

“And, _woah,”_ he starts, “you weren’t kidding when you said you needed this song.”

You shove him gently away, laughing despite yourself. But Shawn just wraps his arm around you, pulling you into him. His embrace is strong and warm and safe and you burrow yourself deeper into his chest.

You only realise that you’re crying into his shirt when he rubs your back gently, telling you, “Hey, it’s okay. Just let it out.”

So you do. You let your tears fall, staining his shirt as he continues to hold you tight in his arms.

You don’t know if it’ll help - if this means taking two steps backwards or if it’s detoxifying you of all things Lauren. Right now, all you know is that Shawn’s here for you and you feel safe and loved and cared for, and right now, that’s all that really matters.

//

You wake up the next day in your bed. There’s a shirt you don’t recognise that’s on you - it’s large on your frame and it’s definitely not yours. Your sight is hazy and your eyes feel swollen and you realise you must’ve cried yourself to sleep last night. When you look around the room, you find Shawn laying sprawled across the daybed, his long limbs hanging off the edge.

You can’t help the small laugh at the sight of it. He looks entirely too large for the tiny thing, and it’s a comical sight to start your morning with.

After you drag yourself out of bed, seeing it’s still early, you move quietly to wake Shawn up, coaxing him to sleep in on the bed instead. He does, but he’s only half awake, so you have to guide him over, which proves to be difficult when he’s about twice your size.

With Shawn tucked snugly in bed, a sleepy, _‘Night, Mila,’_ murmured from his lips, once you’ve brushed your teeth and made yourself a cup of coffee, you decide there’s no better way to start your day after a night of crying with a swim to this kind of view.

You dive into the pool, the water breaking under you, sending cold ripples all through your body. You’ve always felt comfortable in the water, be it in an ocean or a pool or even in the bathtub. You’ve always felt safe. The beach is where you go when you need time to yourself, letting the sound of the waves crash over you, reminding you that you’re only so small, only a single droplet in an entire ocean. It grounds you and pulls everything into perspective.

You swim a couple laps, back and forth, and back and forth, until you grow tired. When you do, you lean against the very edge of the pool, looking below where a forest of green lay below you.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun still hangs low over the horizon, the sky a light orange above a sea of blue. The distant chirping of insects and birds in the trees fill the air, the wind bristling through its leaves. It’s hard not to feel serene like this, surrounded entirely by nature.

You close your eyes, taking it all in. You soak in the sounds, breathe in the crisp smell in the air, and you’re entirely at peace.

You’re not entirely sure how long has passed, but when you open your eyes, you think you finally have that verse.

//

Both you and Shawn leave the next day. You’re flying straight to Miami and Shawn has a connecting flight to LA.

Turns out, one of the reasons Natalia was able to book you a room on such short notice is because she’d promised them that you’d post a picture of you at the resort, tagging the place. It’s not really a big deal to you, and you make sure Natalia knows you’re not upset for being duped into an advertising gig, because at the end of the day, your little getaway has worked to clear your head.

With Shawn’s Instagram stories and a post from you in a bikini and the sunset behind you, it’s safe to say your end of the deal was held up. Sure, there’ll be relationship speculations between you and Shawn, but neither of you really care at this point. The both of you have found that _Shawmila_ fans are almost as stubborn as _Camren_ fans are and there’s nothing you can do about it.

When you’re at the airport, when you’re about to part ways as your flight is called for boarding, you pull him into a final hug, thanking him profusely because he’s been such a big part in helping you feel better.

“Don’t worry about it, Mila,” he drops a kiss to the top of your head. “Anytime you want to getaway and need some company, I’m always down for some free accomodation.”

You grin up at him. “Yeah, ‘cause your broke ass _definitely_ needs it, right?” you joke as you draw apart. “But, really, _thank you,”_ you say. You know you’re far from _totally_ okay, but right now, you’re kind of okay, and maybe that’s enough.

“Stop being a sap,” he scolds, but smiles anyway, ruffling your hair like you’re a kid. You mock offense, but you can’t really keep your face straight when he’s grinning so brightly at you.

“Gotta go,” you nod towards your gate. “I’ll see you in a week or something in the studio?” you ask and he nods.

“Go on,” Shawn pushes you gently towards where the line is shortening. “You don’t wanna miss your flight and be stuck on this _wretched_ island another day, do you?” he says with a crooked smile.

“Yeah, it’s _horrible_ . With all their clear waters and wonderful views - _disgusting,”_ you shoot back, words dipped in sarcasm. You make a move towards your gate, sending him one last smile, telling him to, “Send me a text when you land,” before you hand your passport over to the lady at the counter, stepping over the threshold and onto the plane back to Miami.

//

“And how was St _Lucia?” Lucy_ grins, wiggling her eyebrows playfully as she drags out the word.

“You’re annoying,” you say, rolling your eyes. “It was _coincidence_ ,” you defend, “Was the cheapest of the Caribbean islands on short notice.”

Lucy shrugs. “I still probably could’ve gotten you a better deal to _St Lucia.”_

“Again,” you try to deadpan this, _“annoying.”_ It doesn’t really work. Not when Lucy just looks at you all smug, making you crack a smile.

“Anyway, I was wondering where you disappeared off to for, like, a week,” she says, “Next thing I know, you’re offending the whole of Instagram with a picture of you in a _bikini_ saying you were living it up at some fancy resort.”

You’re unable to hold your laugh in at that. _“You’re dangerous,”_ you huff out under your breath, shaking your head. “Thought I’d treat my fans a bit after hiding away for so long,” you shrug nonchalantly.

Lucy lets out a long breath, “Yeah, we were _definitely_ given a treat with _that.”_

Heat rises in your cheeks, but you don’t let her see it because you hide your face away. Luckily for you, her next question drains all the colour from your face.

“What happened, anyway? Why’d you go into hiding?”

Of all your people, Lucy’s the one you’re the most scared to tell of what happened with Lauren. A part of you knows she wouldn’t ever judge you, but a larger part of you also feels like she’s the one you’ve let down the most by falling back into bed with Lauren.

You pick at your cuticles, not really wanting to meet her eyes. With a shrug on your shoulders, you simply say, “I just needed to clear my head.”

“But _something_ happened, didn’t it? I know you’re a lot melodramatic,” she says with no harm in her words, “but you wouldn’t just take the next flight out if _nothing_ happened.”

The difference you find between Lucy and Shawn, is that while Shawn has a more _‘tell me at your own pace,’_ approach, Lucy very much forces you to deal with your issues instead of letting you pretend they’re not there. She never pushes too far, but she does push.

“I ended up meeting with Lauren.”

Lucy nods, waiting. She doesn’t seem at all surprised. Lucy doesn’t say anything yet, just silently prompting you to continue.

“And we slept together.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable lecture or show of disappointment from Lucy, but it doesn’t come. When you reopen your eyes, there’s only concern in hers.

“Do you feel better after going away for a bit?”

You nod, “Yeah. A lot.”

“Have you talked to her since?”

You shake your head, “Not yet. She texted, but I’m kind of avoiding her. We both said some pretty shitty things to each other after we… _yeah._ ”

She hums in acknowledgement. “You should talk to her,” she suggests. “Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, or even this week. But soon. I don’t know what exactly went down between the two of you, and that’s between the two of you, so you two should work to resolve it.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “I just need some time. But soon,” you promise.

Lucy sends a soft, reassuring smile towards you. She reaches out, taking your hand in hers, gentle, and you let out a breath. You’re forever grateful for the people you’ve surrounded yourself with, and you’re glad that Lucy’s one of them.

//

Soon happens to be in the next two days.

You text Lauren, belatedly replying her, _Are you okay?,_ with a simple, **_better now. can we meet?_ **

The two of you arrange it within the day itself, and this time, you both meet in a neutral place - somewhere that’s not her place, nor is it yours. More importantly, a place that has no beds.

You tell her to meet you in the studio, and when she arrives, after she settles on the couch, you make sure to stay as far across her, leaning against the control panel.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing she says, breaking the silence. You’ve never heard her utter more sincere words.

“Me too,” you murmur, willing yourself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry I accused you of all that, and for everything else.”

She nods, accepting your apology. Neither one of you are going to dispute that there’s no blame to bare here.

“I think,” you start after a deep breath to steady yourself. “I think I’ve got to stop pretending I was never mad at you for everything. Because the truth is that I _was_ angry with you, for a _long_ time, and maybe some parts of me still is. And I don’t think I can properly move on from everything if I don’t acknowledge that.”

You’ve been practicing these words over and over again, reminding yourself that your anger is just as valid as any of her feelings, and that you can’t keep pretending like you’re this saint with no negative thoughts about her.

“I hear you.” She moves to tuck her hair behind her ear. You see her face so clear - not hidden behind stray strands of dark hair anymore. She’s _so, so_ beautiful, and your heart hurts all over again.

“And,” Lauren speaks up. You can feel her looking at you, but you need a short break, so you remain looking at your hands. “I don’t think you know how much you leaving affected me.” At her admission, you meet her eyes, staring at her puzzled. “I always made it seem like I was okay about it - we weren’t even talking back then, and _yeah_ I blew up at you on that last night, but I made it seem like it really didn’t matter to me, like I didn’t care at all, when I really fucking did, I _do_.

“You’re a huge part of my life, Camz. And I pretended like you weren’t, when really, I was a _mess_ after you left the group.” A laugh falls from her lips, and both of you don’t miss the lack of humour in it. “But at the same time, I knew how much you needed to leave. You were so _fragile_ towards the end, and I was always so scared you’d just one day _break_ , and I kept telling myself that you leaving would be better than that.”

You remember Lucy telling you how their relationship grew strained after your leaving, but you don’t think it ever registered as to _why_ it might’ve been so. You don’t think it ever properly registered to you that you could ever affect someone’s life like that.

“And that’s why I held on to Lucy,” she continues. The mere mention of her name snaps you back into the conversation. “She always gave me some semblance of normalcy, but then when you left and I tried to hold on to that, she started reminding me of you. Like,” she shakes her head, a tiny smile on her lips, “you two are so different, but also kind of similar in other ways. And when you left, I kept seeing more of those similarities, and it just hurt, you know?”

“Was that why Ty happened?” The question comes out shyly. You’ve never been as comfortable asking about Ty, you don’t feel like you have the place.

She nods. “Kind of. He’s the opposite of you. In _literally_ every way. And he’s also the opposite of Lucy. So, he helped me get over her quickly, which is really shitty to say, but it’s true. He made me forget about you too - not entirely, but enough for me to continue living my life.”

You’re trying to take in all this information. It’s so new and so overwhelming that you’re unsure really how to process it all.

“Do you think…” you start, voice low and shy, “that we’d work? In another time? Maybe if we weren’t so young and so idealistic and scared?”

She looks at you thoughtfully. Her stare is deep and probing and you let her hold you. You don’t shy away from it, not anymore.

“I think we’d work now.”

Her words shoot all the way through you. You feel it in every nerve ending, you feel it in your toes, at the tips of your fingers, everywhere.

Everything in the room stills. You hear nothing over the beat of your heart, your breath caught in the back of your throat. She stands before you with eyes so open you almost feel like you can see all of her. But nothing from you. No words, no gestures, nothing rendering you from this moment.

“We did a lot of growing up together, and then we did a lot of growing up without each other.” You see her start to rise, moving cautiously closer towards you. You want to step back, move away, but you’re rooted to where you stand. She steps into you, less than a foot between the two of you. “I think I preferred growing up with you than without.”

She reaches for your hand, holds it in hers. Her skin is soft against yours, the tips of her fingers trailing all across your skin.

“I want to try again,” she says, and now you’re sure that even your heart stops. The earth just moved, and you both felt it. “Being with you like that last week, when we were just talking, and being ourselves with each other - it just felt so natural and _I’ve missed you so much, Camz.”_

You see how her eyes are watery, how she breathes out the confession, wearing it all out on her sleeve, and if you were a weaker person, you’d already have kissed her.

But you can’t do that to her, not when, “We can’t,” you shake your head, trying to remain adamant. “Not now,” you say.

“What?” You can hear her heart breaking, you hear it crack along with her voice. “Why not?”

You shake your head, blinking your tears away. “My contract,” you answer. It’s simple, but it’s enough to explain it all to her.

“We can- we can just keep it lowkey,” she barters. “I just want to be with you,” she tells you, and if she said this to you just a week ago, you’d have been over the moon.

But it’s not last week, and the time you’ve taken for yourself has helped and, “We can’t,” you repeat.

There’s clear frustration in her voice when she says, “Camz, you can’t just keep giving me two-word answers and thinking it’s enough.”

“I just-” you begin before you take a moment to collect yourself. Your hand is still in hers, her thumb drawing patterns into your skin. It calms you. “I have three more years on my contract,” you tell her. “And that means I have to play straight for three more years. There really aren’t any exceptions. They made it clear when I signed, and I signed knowingly,” you admit. “I needed to get out of FIfth Harmony that I didn’t really think it through and took the first thing that came my way. I’ve only myself to blame for that, and I’m not dragging you into it.”

“We’ll hide it from everyone,” she’s still determined. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be okay,” she smiles hopefully, trying to reassure you, squeezing your hand in hers. “We’ll fight through it together.”

But still, you shake your head. “I’m not putting you through that.”

“You’re not putting me through anything! I _want_ this, I want _you_.”

“You’ll resent me.”

“I won’t-”

 _“You will,”_ you press, unwavering. “Because _I_ resented you.” Your confession stops whatever argument she had, her mouth falling close. “When we were first together, when I wanted to fight against management and everyone and just say _to hell with it_ , and when you didn’t, I know I pretended like it was okay, but I _resented_ you, Lauren. It hurt me so much that you didn’t want to fight for us like I did, and I understood, _I did,_ but I couldn’t help feeling that way. I know it didn’t mean you loved me any less, but it sure as hell felt like it.

“And it’s going to be the same if we start a relationship in these conditions. It’s not that I don’t want to fight for us,” you tell her, this time, you’re squeezing her hand. “But I don’t want to fight _them_ . And even if you promise you understand that, somewhere along these next three years, you _will_ grow to resent me.

“We can’t start like that again,” you tell her, “Because I’m not willing to lose you the same way twice.”

Her eyes break the stare you’ve held, falling to where your hands are intertwined between the two of you. You see her nod, slow and unsure, but she nods anyway. “Okay,” she says, “You’re right.” She looks back up at you, those beautiful eyes welled. Your heart breaks at the sight of it. “So where do we go from here?”

“I need you in my life,” you say. You’re adamant about this. Your voice doesn’t waver. “If you’re okay with it, maybe we can start as friends.”

Lauren laughs. It sounds incredulous even to your ears. “Friends?”

“Yeah. Two people who are in each others lives, who talk and hang out and are there for each other, who aren’t strangers. Because I don’t know if I can deal with you being a stranger again.

“And if it goes anywhere else, it goes, I guess. But we shouldn’t force ourselves, or simply jump into a relationship, because the Camila you loved was a Camila from two years ago. We don’t know each other anymore,” you admit. “I know that I do want to try again, but I also would never want to put you in a situation where it’ll feel like I’m hiding you. That’s not healthy for either of us.”

Lauren shakes her head, confusion in her eyes. “I don’t understand. Are you asking me to wait for you or-”

“I’d never ask you to wait for me,” you shake your head. “If someone better comes along for you, I want you to go for it, and I’d appreciate if the same regard was held for me. I think that we should do this slowly. We should be friends before anything else. We should get to know each other first, _again._ And if the feelings are still there, then we talk about it, we see where we go from there. But we have to _talk_ about it, okay? No more of me locking myself in my room and crying, and no more of you ignoring me until it passes, okay?

“But it’s up to you,” you say, holding her stare, “As of _right now,_ I can only offer you friendship, and it’s not because I don’t _want_ to offer you anything more.”

“I know,” she murmurs softly, “You’re right,” she says, “We should go into this slowly. _Friends,”_ Lauren nods.

 _“Friends,”_ you smile.

 _“So,”_ the corner of her lips tug upwards. “What do we do now? Shake on it? _Sign a contract-?”_

 _“Woah,”_ you stop her there, unable to keep the grin off your lips. “Way too soon,” you joke. You love how her laugh sounds, how her eyes squint with her smile.

You can’t help yourself, you pull her in, your embrace tight, arms wrapped around her as you burrow your face into the crook of her neck as she holds you just as tight. You can smell her shampoo - it’s sweet and fruity and it’s _Lauren_.

You know you still very much love her.

It might not be the same love as before, it might not be enough, but you know a large part of you still loves her.

You figure moving on can come in different forms, that you don’t have to completely leave her behind to do so. You can move on from here with her beside you. You can move on from her and still love her.

You figure that’s enough for now.

//

It’s a couple months down the line and you’re at a fashion show. You’re the new face of Tommy Hilfiger, so it’s no surprise you’re meant to make an appearance at their Spring 2019 show.

It is a surprise that Lucy’s modelling for them, though.

But it’s an even bigger surprise that Lauren’s sat front row on the opposite side of the runway.

It’s been a couple months since you and Lucy had re-followed each other on Instagram, and it’s given your fans some time to calm down, enough for you to not have to hide your friendship anymore. It’s also because they became way more focussed on when you and Lauren had followed each other back on all your social medias.

You’re at the best place your relationship (with a lowercase _r_ ) with Lauren has ever been. You hang out a good amount of time, you’re there to listen to her rant about some dumb thing her manager wants her to do, and she works as a good shoulder to cry on when you’ve had a particularly stressful day.

It’s still platonic.

 _Romantic_ at best, but never sexual. Neither one of you are ready to cross that threshold _(again),_ and you’re glad for it, not knowing how you’d handle moving forward from there.

You can see her smile at you from across the space, a playful wink being shined towards you. You return it by rolling your eyes, but still, your lips twitch at its corners, completely out of your control.

She looks as gorgeous as ever. Her hair’s tied into a neat bun, her makeup simple as she wears a floral sundress that ends just above her knees. It’s loose and light and entirely takes your breath away.

There are a number of familiar faces sitting next to you, artists and producers in the industry that you’ve met elsewhere. You busy yourself with talking to them, ignoring Lauren’s burning stare from all the way across the space.

It doesn’t take long before the fashion show starts, and the event flies by pretty quickly after that. You’re really mostly there to cheer Lucy on, yelling and whooping as your camera follows her strutting perfectly up and down the runway, not even once breaking at the sound of your incessant cheers.

You look at her doing her thing and you think, _that’s_ what you call professionalism.

When the show ends, after the creative director concludes it with a closing speech, it doesn’t take long for Lauren to find you.

You’re not sure you hide it well, but you try to act as though you’re not incredibly shocked that she came up to you - _in public._

You know this is a big step for her. The narrative that’s been used since you’ve left is that they all hated all your guts. It had gotten slowly ripped apart though, with your reunion with Normani last year, the tweet you’d sent out in support of Ally’s debut album, and the # _tbt_ picture you’d posted of you and Dinah when both of you were sixteen, all duck faces and bad angles, just last month.

Lauren comes up to you, a soft smile on her lips, and there’s that final nail in the coffin. You can see the tabloids now: _Camila Cabello’s Feud with Fifth Harmony Officially OVER!_

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” you say, suddenly bashful under her gaze, tucking the stray strands of your fringe behind your ear.

“It was meant to be a surprise.” There’s a nonchalant shrug on her shoulders, saying it as though this totally isn’t a huge thing.

She’s grinning ear to ear, eyes bright as she looks at you and still, you feel the need to ask, “You sure you want to be seen with me? There are loads of cameras and if this gets out, you _know_ what’ll start again…”

If she’s offended by your insinuation, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her smile remains. “Yeah.” By the way she says it so confidently, not faltering, no hesitation, you only barely contain yourself from jumping at that. Logically, you know neither one of you can really do anything given the terms in your contract, but still, it feels like a huge leap forward. “In fact,” she starts, looking around before she waves one of the official photographers over. “Do you mind getting a picture of us?”

The man abides easily. Lauren sidles up next to you, loops her arm around your waist as you instinctively do the same. You’re still partly in shock, depending on your body to react on its own, for your lips to stretch itself into a smile and for your heart not to jump out from your chest. You hear two clicks, the shutter going, then he’s nodding at the two of you, quickly showing you the picture on the tiny screen of his camera before he walks off, looking for more photo opportunities.

“That might break the internet,” you note and Lauren simply hums, almost unbothered if not for that hint of a smile at the corner of her lips.

“You doing anything after this?”

You shrug. “I’m meant to be here for another hour, and I’m supposed to show face at their afterparty later at night - but between then and now,” you pause, as though thinking thoughtfully, “Nope, I should be all clear.”

 _“Funny,”_ Lauren starts. You hear the playfulness flirting at her words. “I seem to have that exact same schedule too.”

You know you’re blushing now. You also know that this is dangerous territory you’re venturing into, so you take a step back.

“I really have to be careful around you, huh?” you say, shaking your head, especially when Lauren just shoots you a toothy grin as her response. “They told me to go backstage for some pictures,” you inform her, then, “Wait for me?” you ask.

Her lips fall into something soft, something sincere. “Always.”

You’re stood shell-shocked from her words. It takes you a moment, and then another to pull yourself out of your Lauren-induced reverie. You don’t say anything, unable to trust your own words, squeezing her arm as you nod at her, holding her stare for _one, two, three_ seconds before you finally manage to turn away.

You can feel her eyes following you all the way until you disappear behind the curtains, and you’re greatly thankful for the protection they provide from Lauren’s burning stare.

You take a breath, allowing a second to collect yourself before you put on your game face. You talk to who you need to, laugh at the jokes you’re meant to, and smile whenever they ask you to.

You’re drifting through the crowd of influential names and gorgeous models and it takes you a good ten minutes, until you finally spot her.

There’s a stark difference between the smiles you’ve been wearing and the beam that takes over your face.

_“Lucia!”_

She only looks at you coolly, the picture of calm. There’s a slight pull at the corner of her lips, but still she remains unmoved, leaning against her vanity half-dressed in her normal clothes, wearing a pair of jeans while her top is just barely covered by the black silk robe she sports.

“Camila Cabello,” she nods, making you do all the effort and meeting her where she stands. You don’t miss how she lets her accent rest on your name.

You grin brightly at her, uncaring for this cool façade she’s trying to put off in front of her model friends by simply tugging her into a greeting hug the moment you reach her. “You killed it out there!”

“Yeah?” The corner of her lips twitch. “Think I walked good?”

“Very,” you say. “You totally sold me into buying everything you were modelling.”

“Right, because you wouldn’t already be getting those clothes for free, given you’re like, the face of this season or anything.”

_“Exactly.”_

She stares at you thoughtfully. Those warm, brown eyes raking over your face, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the blush that’s rising.

“What?”

“You’re so much happier now.” She says it like a fact. LIke the sky is blue, like pizza is the best comfort food, like Camila Cabello is happy now.

You nod. “I am.”

She looks at you pleased, almost proud of you or something.

“You helped me a lot, you know? I don’t think you’ll ever really know just how much you helped me get here, but you did, _a lot.”_

“Don’t get all sappy on me now.”

“I’m serious, Lucy,” you press, needing her to know just how much you mean your words.

All the confidence that she was exuding from earlier is nowhere in sight in now. You find her looking down at her phone, shaking her head as scarlet colours her cheeks.

You mean to go on. You want to get across the weight in your words, but to Lucy’s luck, you’re all being called to clump together for a photo.

She follows closely behind you as you’re dragged to the front of the crowd of insanely gorgeous humans. You end up cramped together, everyone trying to fit into a single frame, and you find Lucy squished behind you.

Her breath fans over the nape your neck when she whispers just loud enough for only you to hear, “Smile, princess.” You can _hear_ the smirk in her words, and at this point you can hope the blush that paints your cheeks isn’t too evident in the picture.

The moment everyone else disperses back into smaller groups after a couple shots are taken, mingling amongst themselves, you pull Lucy aside, away from everyone, then immediately into your arms.

She stands in shock for all of two seconds before she returns the embrace, holding you just as tight.

“Thank you,” you whisper into her ear, “Really,” you say, and you hope that’s enough.

You feel her nod into your neck, and if that’s as much as she’s willing you take, you’re not going to push her any further.

“I have to go,” you say as you draw apart, a sweet smile playing at your lips. “I’ll see you around, okay?” She nods once, but when you make a move to turn away, she catches your hand in hers.

“Thank you, too.” Her eyes are earnest and her gaze makes you feel warm inside. “You helped me too. I think I can safely say I don’t love her anymore.”

Lucy squeezes your hand, then lets go. You’re not sure what to make of it - her words, her stare, her.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to say something intelligent, but you come up empty.

“You should go,” she says, the subtlest smile on her lips. “She’s waiting for you.”

So, you do. You send her one last glance, trying to ignore what that look in her eyes could mean. You shake it off, you’re reading too much into things.

Your eyes find her the moment you step back outside. She’s got a leather jacket draped over her shoulder now, a flute of champagne in her hand as she talks to someone you vaguely recognise as a producer in the industry.

You’re unsure how, but she somehow knows that you’ve reappeared, her eyes meeting yours. You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

She ends her conversation quickly after, depositing the champagne she was holding onto a passing waiter’s tray, as she makes her way towards you.

“Do you need to stick around much longer?” She’s standing in front of you, less than a foot between the two of you.

You look around, finding no one really needing you anywhere. “Nope.”

“Do you wanna get out of here?” she asks, then, “With me?”

You squint at her. Both of you know boundaries have been set, but you still can never be too careful.

Her hands shoot up in defence. “No funny business,” she swears. “Just hanging out.”

“Okay,” you concede, “I’ll go with you.”

The grin she wears the moment you agree with her is unfairly adorable.

You let her lead the way, falling in step with her. It doesn’t go past you how her fingers keep brushing up against yours. You don’t comment but you do hope that she doesn’t catch the smile you’re biting down on.

She opens her car door for you, all smiles and bright eyes.

“But _hey_ ,” you hear, just before you slip inside, the teasing on her breath evident. When you turn to her, there’s that smug look on her face that you were expecting to find. You’re _so_ tempted to kiss it away. “If it goes anywhere else, it goes, right?”

Your words from months ago are echoed back to you, and red taints your cheeks.

Still, you nod, your lips painted in a smile. “If it goes anywhere else, it goes.”

//

_Hate to admit it but I got a heart rush_

_It ain't slowing down_

  
  



End file.
